


Catastrophe

by Val_Creative



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dark, Inspired by Fanfiction, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Mind Games, Pining, Remix, Supernatural Elements, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampires, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 07:11:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17976761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: During the height of the masquerade ball, Bruce vanishes from the array of guests. To clear his mind, he palms over Thomas Wayne’s gold watch, settled in the pocket of Bruce’s waistcoat.





	Catastrophe

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Vampire & The Hunter: Eternal Lovers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17525363) by [Jennyfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennyfer/pseuds/Jennyfer). 



> I don't remember the last time I did a remix/fanfic of a fanfic but this is for " **The Vampire & The Hunter: Eternal Lovers**" because I'm OBSESSED with it and it's my friend's fanfic! I wanted to surprise Jen! I HOPE THIS DOES JUSTICE TO YOUR LOVELY FIC! I based it somewhere in the middle of Chapter 3 while the Halloween Masquerade Ball is still happening and Bruce has figured out the Valeska twins are both vampires and knows what they look like. IT'S AN AMAZING FIC. PLEASE READ IT. PLEASE READ IT AND LEAVE A FEW NICE WORDS. SHE DESERVES IT. I hope you guys like this too and I would appreciate any comment! Thank you!

 

*

During the height of the masquerade ball, Bruce vanishes from the array of guests.

(He will not be missed. Truly, Bruce believes not a living soul here knows him intimately or well.)

The dancers hired by the Valeskas leap from their perches. They spin and beckon to him in their red and white and black checkered, form-fitting outfits, as soon as Bruce heads for the ballroom's ivory-wood doors. A young, square-jawed woman in a checkered mask tickles an indigo-dyed ostrich feather to Bruce's nose. At the same time, one of the men runs a vermilion, satin-gloved forefinger over the line of Bruce's jaw.

Bruce offers mumbled, solemn words, avoiding eye-contact as he passes the dancers. A hot hint of pink rises up Bruce's neck. After taking a deep, steadying breath, Bruce finds himself less _flustered_ out in the lone corridor, walking from the noises of the finely tuned cellos and violins, into the depths of the mansion.

To clear his mind, he palms over Thomas Wayne's gold watch, settled in righthand-side pocket of Bruce's ebony waistcoat. His diamond cuff-links flashing in the glittering, crystalline-white light overhead.

(Did he not mentally refer to this occasion as _exciting_?)

Standing face-to-face with Jeremiah… reveling in his formidable and enigmatic presence, in his _beauty_ … it seems like All Hallows' Eve may have its bewitching effects on Bruce after all. But no doubt… a hunter much as Bruce Wayne's linage must always resist falling victim to any foul play. Affections or otherwise.

He ascends a grand staircase in ivory and gold-glimmering structure, Bruce's feet dragging upon the scarlet runner. _Blood_ -deep colour. The next hallway seems familiar. Bruce slowly recognizes the lines of statues.

Most of the nobles would hold their noses and complain about the offensive nature. All of this marble-pale, nude skin out on display. No sense of decorum or _decency_ in sight. Bruce pushes those thoughts, just as he pushes away his Colombina black mask from his face, inhaling sharply. He curiously, silently eyes two of the muscular statues with their hands outstretched to each other. One of them visibly younger than the other, but not by much. His marble-made, delicate expression full of awe, his erect genitals resting upon his thigh.

Bruce feels the earlier heat on his neck rising again, but he bravely doesn't tear his gaze away.

"Quite magnificent, aren't they?"

He startles, turning around to Jerome Valeska yanking off his own beaked, black-and-gold elegant mask. Tall as his brother. Bruce immediately senses an air of dark, vaguely menacing intent.

"I hired a world-renowned sculptor for the realistic and smallest detail-work." Jerome drawls loudly, unhooking his arm from Ms. Quinzel's middle. "They needed to capture the very essence and _likeness_ of human anatomy." He gestures dramatically to a nearby, naked female statue with her hands clasped in mock-prayer and eyes shut, propping his elbow up on her thin shoulder.

"Bruce lived in Gotham his whole life. Isn't that right?" Ms. Quinzel gleefully stares at him, her bare fingers lifting to her pale pink mouth twitching erratically. "Have you ever seen exquisite statues such as these?"

"Indeed not," Bruce answers, concerned for her but he feels _strange_. Lightheaded. It hits him out of nowhere. Feels a woolen, heavy blanket has found its way into Bruce's chest and his lungs and suffocates him. He clears his throat, taking a step back without revealing himself. "Excuse me, _aah_ , I must—"

"—what's the hurry, Mister Wayne?" Jerome says softly, _eerily_ , appearing right in front of Bruce. His reddish hair shining and its ends molten golden from beneath the radiance of the ornate chandelier.

" _I_ …"

This is erroneous. Bruce cannot summon the singular energy to grasp into his jacket for the vial of holy water. Anything as a cause for a deterrent. He's a gods-damned vampyr and… so is Jeremiah… but unlike being with Jeremiah, _awed_ and pleasantly dizzy and willing to further their time together, Bruce only feels an onset of horror deep in his bones when Jerome's lips stretch into a wide, fiendish grin.

"You'll stay, won't you?" Jerome lowers his voice, moving closer to Bruce's personal space. He rumbles out a deep, satisfied note. "You will. After all… a gentleman would not leave his friend _unattended_ …"

"Stay, Bruce," Ms. Quinzel repeats lovingly like an echo.

She's far too caught in Jerome's throes now. Her sapphire eyes fever-bright and bulging. Ms. Quinzel singsongs Bruce's name, twittering and waving her closed fan, her ruby-and-gold mask nowhere to be found.

Jerome's shadow descends over him. Bruce feels his _horror_ and panic mounting inside, locked up, unable to escape. His lungs _blanketed_ over, tightening. Jerome looks over him in good-humored approval, a thumbnail pressing over Bruce's satin, ebony-hued cravat, audibly scratching over the diamond embedded in its center.

"What a _divine_ scent… …"

Bruce exhales rapidly through his nose, helpless, gazing right into those eyes. A penetrating shade of green.

" _Jerome_ ," comes a new voice.

A man with Jerome's similiar facial features, but translucently white flesh and sharp, silvery eyes, marches down the hallway to them, also unmasked. Relief courses through Bruce. He cannot open his mouth to speak to a frowning Jeremiah, but does renew his efforts to free himself of the other vampyr's influence.

"My, don't look so distraught, Brother." Jerome glances nonchalantly over to his twin, shrugging. "What _is_ a celebratory ball without a little merrymaking?" he remarks.

"If it was in jest, allow this guest his own volition."

A tutting, disappointed noise from Jerome.

"Forgive me. It seems I cannot help myself surrounded by beautiful young men…" Jerome touches a hand to Bruce's chin, pinching down _hard_ until Bruce yelps, backing up against the mansion-wall and gasping for oxygen, bending over himself. "And so many pretty women…" Jerome adds, grinning once more, twirling Ms. Quinzel in all her red-and-gold glory, smacking a hearty, exaggerated kiss to her powdered-white knuckles.

Jeremiah's expression remains skeptical as his twin brother approaches him, leaning in as he did Bruce. A featherweight caress of his lips onto Jeremiah's bright red mouth. As if hoping to measure his reaction.

"And us… we can _take_ them all for ourselves."

"Mind yourself," Jeremiah murmurs. A silvery blade's edge warning.

Jerome makes a show of rolling his eyes and his head, sighing. "Folly. You only take the _merry_ out of everything," he mock-broods, pulling a woozy Ms. Quinzel away with an overly rough tug, giggling along with her.

Bruce finds himself still half-collapsed on the wall, bending over, his hands grinding over his temples. He give himself another long minute to straighten up, gulping. The lightheaded sensation once tortuously clinging to Bruce now easing. It helps to focus on the pearly white of Jeremiah's tail-coat. Jeremiah is near enough to him where he could slide his arms under Bruce if he faints, but respectfully distant. "Are you alright?"

"… … I think so."

"My apologies, Bruce." Jeremiah aims a scowl behind him. "When Jerome has a desire, he wholly devotes himself to the means to… _obtaining_ it," he explains, taking a moment to smooth out the loosened strands of his dark and slicked-back hair. Bruce swears it has a bluish-green tint. "Unless I choose to interfer."

"Thank you," Bruce whispers, nodding.

"You're not his."

A quiver, delightful and alarmingly sudden, runs up through Bruce's spine-column. _His_ — Jeremiah mutters this, and Bruce has the impression that Jeremiah means to claim Bruce as _his_ own.

(They could _vanish_. Together.)

It will never be.

*

 


End file.
